Shadowrunning VS the Forces of Evil
by Natasel
Summary: AU. Marco Diaz gets the job of a lifetime. Be a guide to one Star Butterfly. Easy. Too bad in the Shadows, easy jobs never are.
1. Introducing Marco Diaz

**Far, far away, in a fragging awful place called San Diego, lived a normal boy: Marco Diaz.**

"HiiiYA!" One chi infused karate chop, and monster brain matter splattered out the skull, into its own mouth and was quickly squashed along with its lower jaw as a powered snap kick sent the misshapen mass of teeth, horns, feathers and scales, spinning end over end as it flew off back into the dark, foreboding alley from whence it came.

A tossed grenade made sure whatever else was in there wouldn't feel left out.

 **Some people have called him careful and responsible.**

"FERAL GHOULS COMING THROUGH!" Hopping onboard in one leap, the rider on the glitz custom chopper checked the empty street, put on a helmet and flipped on the proper signal lights before roaring through an abandoned highway, past a hellish landscape of bombed out urban ruins and radiated wastes while leading a truly impressive horde of ghouls slavering for his flesh in the dust.

 **Just because he didn't live life on the edge.**

"Descanso en paz." The homemade flamethrower's gout of burning napalm arced through the air for greater range before enveloping a truly impressive horde of bisected ghoul bodies in a text book example of low risk corpse disposal.

The Kreig strain virus made victims ravenous cannibals but robbed the afflicted of normal sight and cognitive abilities. Letting a prepped and easily visible monofilament wire with safety lights strung between two lamp posts end them to the last.

 **Or try to control awakened animals.**

"I am sorry, but your time is over. It is time for the Great Sleep." His stark black toreador clothes were ruined. Tired, filthy, yet unscratched, actually triumphant…but pitying, Marco knelt before the red eyed bull as it glared at him and tried to gore with night black horns but it was pointless. Steely hooves that could have crushed his skull no longer had the strength to stand. The beast's mystical blood had been spilling into the fields all day. Hide that could shrug off bullets was festooned with enchanted banderillas.

Raising his bloody enruned spada for the final estocada, Marco watched as the fire left the animal's eyes and dim until it became a dull black. The mortal shell wounded beyond its ability to serve as host soon shrank in on itself, the mighty bull decomposing before his eyes, mystically spreading the green glow of vitality back to the corrupted soy fields it had trampled so carelessly in its rage.

A spirit stone lay untouched and empty by his feet.

Marco was disappointed of course. His Spirit Quest had started off so promising this time, but like the other times he had tried before, it just did not feel right to just take his prize no matter how hard he fought for his victory. He began to doubt if he would ever succeed and consoled himself with the knowledge that though he failed, there was one less rampaging spirit in the world.

In the place beyond space, Wolf howled. Coyote laughed. Eagle watched Snake slither away as Cat hissed at sleeping Bear. Racoon facepawed though.

 **He liked having work.**

"Ere ya go boss! Goblin Dogs, smokin hot!" Feeling utterly stupid with a neon pink mohawk, fake tats and tacky costume, Marco smiled extra wide, letting the flickering public high school bathroom lights shine off gold ringed tusks. Not laughing at how the pampered archology brats were trying to pretend they were tough was harder than getting the damn Goblin Dogs, but when slumming, out of town corp kids wanted to rebel with daddy's credits, Marco wasn't too proud to dress up like a bad tri-vid Ork ganger and sell them some "Authentic Street" experience.

It wouldn't be so sad if Marco didn't get quietly booked for the job by their dads 2 weeks in advance.

 **And he was about to get whole lot more, because today was Graduation Day. By tradition, the most promising student got a corporate sponsored SIN!**

Washing out the cheap dye and fake tats, Marco looked at the mirror, which was really a shorted ad screen that was supposed to sell the latest skillsofts chips promising to make long division instantly instinctive and sighed at the tusked face looking back at him. His brown hair, eyes and unremarkable light tan skin should have made him normal but he was born as a child of the 6th world, one of the countless that Awakened when magic flowed back into the world, and thus revived the dormant bloodlines of Orks, normal just wasn't going to happen.

Marco was always going to be bigger than a normal human, stronger, tougher and tusked with sharper teeth and pointed ears to boot. He was a boy in a monster's body.

"I'm getting too old for this drek." At 14, he was technically still young but legal classifications didn't always follow reality. Biologically, he was closer to a 30 year old man. By actual 30 he'd be ready for retirement.

And he'd be lucky to see 50 before his heart gave out.

Which meant his dreams of becoming a legitimate doctor, unless he was willing to go the "easy" route implant skillware directly into his brain, had to face up to the stark reality that the traditional Med School route would be a pointless waste of time. Even if could qualify for a student loan with his sketchy background or a find school willing to let him enroll in the first place, he'd never be able to pay off his debts with the time he had left.

At best, he'd have to make do with an accelerated high school education. And while it seemed lacking, Marco knew that a high school diploma made him a rarity among orks. Far too many of his fellows simply dropped out. Falling in with gangs, joining tribes, or worse, taking the demeaning, menial jobs like being janitorial staff on garbage island.

Some even became Shadowrunners.

A profession with a near certainty of death or worse the longer you stay in. Where you could face anything from mil spec drones, high level spirits, abominations, hostile magics and secret super weapons or anything in between. Even losing limbs still meant being unable to walk into a sanctioned hospital for treatment for fear of being made, no insurance, possibly getting banned permanently from legitimate businesses and unable to access even basic transactions, the attention of ruthless bounty hunters, professional corp retribution forces, the ever present reward for turning in your fellows leading to a short brutal life full of paranoia and betrayal before being dragged into a black site that doesn't exist to become a disavowed unperson as you get cup cut open for parts, chipped into servitude, or…

Marco was freaking out so much that the sharp sting of hand meeting ass caught him totally by surprise. He shrieked but was cut off by being spun around and kissed deeply, the harsh taste of unsweetened soykaf and moonshine filled his mouth.

The perfume of sea breezes surrounded him as he took a breath, a vision of blonde hair with an aqua streak, mint green eyes and freckles was currently giving him a hot, sloppy kiss and her tight grip on his rear made disengaging difficult. A buxom body ground against him shamelessly.

Still, corded muscles gained through years of hard labor and intense training broke the hold and with more practice than he really should have, spun her around so that her arms were pinned behind her for cuffing in a picture perfect Lone Star double arm lock. She merely smirked at him over her shoulder and ground her shapely butt into his now uncomfortably stiff and tight crotch.

Taking a deep breath and wishing his self-control was being tested by walking on hot coals instead, Marco growled. "Janna, for the last time, cut that out! It was creepy the first time and It hasn't gotten better since."

The girl in his hands smiled impishly. Features melting away from the classic beauty of a California Girl into the untamed charm of an Ork Medicine Woman. "That's not what you said last night."

It was a wonder that he still had blood to become flush with, considering where most of it seemed to be going. "I was drunk."

"Pfft. You had two mugs of Hurlg. You can chug three at once without even feeling it. Now either bend me over or let me get to my knees. Either is fine with me."

Marco was about to say something but found he was too occupied by the feel of Janna's hands on him. Somehow having undone his belt, zipper and gotten past his Mackie Hand underwear without him noticing.

Again.

But as distracting as Janna's hands were, his sharp ears heard the faint but familiar sound of artificial spider legs climbing through a vent and he hissed urgently. "Hide."

Both he and Janna moved with a speed that would have impressed a chromeboy. Janna ducking out of sight under the sink and Marco leaned to add cover.

A split second later, a custom spider drone popped out and broadcast his mission control's voice. "Hey Marco! You didn't answer your com so I thought I'd send Spider-3 out to check up on you."

Marco felt Janna palm the deactivated device into his pockets and sighed. "I'm here Oskar. What's the situation?"

"All green. The kids got into the designated taxi and are no longer our problem. Looks like a couple of Lone Star patrol cars are providing escort back to downtown corp territory. Just in time too. Things are getting a little weird a little early."

Marco didn't like the sound of that. There was no room in his 23-step plan for anything but absolute perfection today. "Define weird."

"Well, asides from the usual assortment of nondescript black cars, company vans, your sweet ride and rust buckets like yours truly, there looks like there is a fancy carriage out here with two custom chimeras acting as horses…here, Spider 3 will tap the feed from my eyes into the bathroom screen so you'll see what I mean."

Marco looked at the grainy image from Oskar's basement bargain cybereyes and blinked. Awakened animals were fairly common in Hopi territory. The tribe weren't a great Horse People but they, like most of the NAN tribes, favored using animals over cars as transport to be closer to nature and the land but this was above and beyond.

Looking like lionheaded dagons than anything else, using them seemed to serve no real advantage but for the effect of pomp as the beasts were attached to what looked like a fairy tale carriage complete with a coachman in royal looking regalia.

His first impulse after trying to spot hidden weapons was to try and spot a camera crew to see if a studio was trying to make a fantasy drama tri-vid show.

"Any clue as to who they are?"

"Nothing my cheap ass recog programs can tell me about. But whoever they are, they don't seem to like the other recruiters very much. They're all giving each other plenty of space so safe bet is they are just another bunch of recruiters. Some subsidiary company of EVO group or Horizon group maybe?"

Marco thought back to all the favors called in, all bribes payed, all the distasteful tasks performed in order to arrange this day and admitted to himself that it just may be the case. Fixers couldn't always be sure they could deliver what they promised so understating their pull happened from time to time.

"Also, one of these days you're going to have to tell me how you got Brittney Wong of all people to send a Wuxing affiliated scout out here."

Oskar turned his head to look at a non-descript man wearing a plain black business suit and glasses. He drove an unmarked plain black car with dark tint and no identifying features.

However, when Oskar turned on his directional receivers, the man's position was lit up with heavy signal traffic and Wuxing standard crypto code frequencies. This wasn't just some bottom rung level recruiter. This was the kind of guy that reads the reports of bottom rung recruiters. Maybe even lower tier management deciding to go slumming for old times sake.

"Sorry Oskar, it's between me and Miss Wong. And she won't appreciate you nosing in. So as a favor to a friend, please drop it for now. I promise to tell you all about it once my job for her is done."

Marco waited tensely for Oskar's answer. They were friends of course, favors were exchanged and they had each other's backs (and blackmail material) but Oskar was a Net Nomad that believed freeing data was a moral duty. But in the face of a genuine offer of reliable first hand intel from a conspirator…

"Whatever you say man. You've always given me the heads up if you suspected something shady so I'll trust you on this chum. Gonna check up on the rest of the team. Can't have them screwing up in the last 10 minutes."

The ad screen went dark and the faint of scurry of Spider-3 started to fade as the drone left.

That was when Marco sighed in relief just before his pants fell to his ankles.

He looked down to see Janna on her knees smiling up at him. "Janna! We don't have time for this!"

She just shrugged. "We got 9 minutes, and I'll watch the tusks."

* * *

Author's rant: Yeah, this thing took waaaay too long to write (thought I'd take only a day or so but ended up needing weeks o_O), and I'm just letting the words flow through me without much thought because I honestly don't have the time or brainpower to pay meticulous attention since I need that brain power for work.

Anway, new fan of Star VS The Forces of Evil and long time Shadowrun fan. Any comment and suggestions would be appreciated.


	2. Gooodbye to the Shadows!

Marco staggered out of the bathroom minutes later much more relaxed, but still worried as an ork in a line up. He wasn't a master level adep yett, but even if he wasn't attuned to the universe, he still had a working brain, (despite Janna's most enthusiastic attempts to bang it out of him) and knew that today, his life would change.

The part of the school he was in was deserted but still close enough to the football field that he could see the lights and hear ceremony music blaring out against the peaceful. The strictly enforced environmental decrees of the NAN made beautiful, clear nights common enough that Marco often meditated upon the heavenly night sky to gain perspective.

Frankly it shouldn't have suprised him to learn just how many of those twinkling lights in the night sky, were corp spy sats.

He reached for a pack of smokes before remembering that Janna stole those on her way out. In its place she left him some good luck charms (a rubber clown nose and take out menu with mystical writ in mustard), some gum and a promise to provide Astral cover. Making sure that whatever else he had to face on Graduation Day, bad magic mojo would have to burn through her body and soul before it could touch him.

Absently checking his pistols as he walked passed a sign reminding students to always be armed on school grounds in case of surprises, he turned his toughts back to Graduation Day.

For most the students, it was just a formality. A temporary suspension of routine as paperwork got sorted out for further processing. Kids that weren't too much trouble got certification that meant they were getting released from the soul crushing academic incarceration facility after serving the time to serve even more time else where.

But for most of the ork and troll students, it was was the audition of a lifetime.

Graduation Day wear for orks was less about togas and more body armor.

For him it meant his default red hood jacket, tac vest and loose dark pants with Adeptus shoes. The worn and ragged clothers were familar, comfortable, and reinforced with ballistic ceraplate weave, thermal insulation, and enough discrete pockets for almost all contingencies.

Also, calling it Graduation "Day" was a bit of a misnomer because having a horde of ugly orks and trolls be seen in the light of day on such an important P.R. event was unthinkable.

Graduations during the day was for the pretty students, the rest only get to come in at night after a security sweep because even an "Academy like Echo Creek had to have SOME standards.

Standards like having a security lockdown, cameras and automated riot turrets that could lay down withering suppression fire of (rubber) bullets in case of intrustion (or escape.)

Too bad they were lousy standard, Marco thought.

One casual bypassing of the staff biometric gate with a RF administrator code emitting earring, courtesy of the local dwarven nerd herd for getting rid of the school troll bully Lars, and Marco was walking through the Skidmark Row, named for what happened when a few kids thought sneaking the school mascot would a cake walk.

They were scrubbing stains for a week after that.

Pulling the hood on and activating the scrambler made the tragetting cameras malfunction, rending the defense system useless. Oscilating points of light beneath visible spectrum causing a temporary storm of haywire glitches as Marco headed for his bike.

It says a lot that the most protected part of the school wasn't the emergency assembly area, but the parking lot where the senior administrators and more well to do students could park their cars.

Then again, Marco sympathized with the sentiment when stood before his bike.

An Orochi-Mrk.16 custom badlands dual type with modular capability for both off road adventure and high speed race track performance. Perfect for either laying back and using pedal steering controls to cruise the highways or holding on as it flew off road on turbo boosted engines, tearing through trails with all the agility of a tweaking jackrabbit with spiked wheels.

His baby.

His honey.

His high octane panty peeler.

"Should I give you two a moment?" Oskar asked from his perch on his car hood. Even if the so called car wasn't parked right next to a custom ride, it looked like a wreck.

Dinged from countless collisions, windshield and windows held together with duct tape, rusted portions exposed, no working headlight, salvaged tires and the mismatched paint job from strapping on whatever chop shop discount bin made Oskar's car and home, a trully impressinve piece of shit.

Which matched its owner quite well.

Legs amputated, mis-matched cyber eyes slotted into emptied orbital sockets, wires and nodes sticking out of hands as frail finggers fiddle with a rudimentary control deck. Oskar was a serious mess.

But as Marco knew all to well, you can't always tell glitz from grime with a casual glance.

"Oskar, this bike is going to be my ride into a bright future as a legit corp SINner. Excuse me for feeling a bit emotional right now."

"A future where you have to wake up at the same time everyday to sit your ass in a cubicle smaller than my car? Need I remind you of why I dropped out of school in the first place?" Oskar sneered. The familiar rythm of an old argument starting.

"Better than being a homeless bum who depends on gas stations for a bathroom and laundry." Marco made a show of fanning his face. Oskar's less than stellar hygene did make staying downwind unpleasant.

"Hey! I have a home." Oskar patted the car. "Which is more than I can say for you Mr. I Still Live With Mommy And Daddy At Fourteen!"

"Thats because I wasn't such a pain in the ass I got thrown out!" Marco yelled back.

"SUCK UP!"

"WASH OUT!"

By the end both of them were shouting at each other. Insulting each other's life choices, tusked faces, intelligence, percieved sexual deviancies with Oskar standing on the carhood on his leg stumps to match Marco glare for glare.

Just as quickly as the insults came, both suddenly broke the tension and started laughing. Both knew this could be last time they had this verbal exchange. Corp life didn't mesh well with lazing about with friends that had a record.

"Who would have thought that little Marco Diaz would grow up to be the only one to bag a SIN eh? Not bad for the safe kid." Oskar wheezed as he lay down on the car. Peeking out of his ratty shirt were hints of extensive torso scars where he lost a lung. Another stark contrast to Marco, who had a physique that was the stuff of fantasies.

"Don't sell the other short Oskar. Ferguson and Alfonzo could still make it." Marco leaned against his bike trying to soak in as much of the casual atmosphere while he still could.

"Marco..." Oskar lifted his head and gave Marco a deadpan expression. "There are thousands of of Orks like Ferguson who humiliate themselves for chump change on a daily basis and Alfonzo is still in the clink for possession and has gotten pinched peddling Pixie Dust a dozen times just this month. Neither of those two have got what it takes man."

Akward silence followed as they as they thought about their two childhood friends. Lacking Edge, too legit to go criminal and too criminal to go legit.

Marco resolved to redouble his effort to put a word in with Mr. Johnson. It wasn't just novahot riggers like Oskar that get hired. Janitor in a nice, clean, safe building beat garbage island any day.

"Speaking of Ferguson, how is the guy doing?"

"I'm keeping an eye on him with Spider-1. Sending the feed to your PDA screen. By the way, is using his belly as a singing ventriloquist dummy still stupid if he does it in Spanish?"

Marco looked into his PDA and tried not to wince at the sight of a grossly overweight ork (or normal sized ogre as Ferg insisted he was) perform a song and dance comedy routine shilling the many supposed virtues of Aztechnology's ubiquitous food products in perfect Aztlander. Ferg's dream company sponsor for the legend of employee discounts on all food purchases.

Demonstrating the commitment to master the language beyond slapping on a skillsoft was a way to get noticed alright, but former the Mexican nation/corp was almost as insular as Japan and few, if any, ever got to go beyond the Wall.

It was bitter irony that before the California Food Riots, the USCA was part of a federation that insisted on the Wall...and generations later, everyone was still paying for it.

"Rev up Marco, Alfonso's bit is almost done."

Nodding Marco hopped on and began to through his check list. "Oskar, in case this is it, did you get my going away package?"

"Yeah doc, I got the meds. I'll make sure the patients get them and your referals. See you on the other side amigo." Oskar hauled himself up on his hands and crawled into his car via window. Moments later the vehicle's tint grew dark and reflective, concealing the rigger as he jacked in and left his meat body to concentrate on the task ahead.

"Mom, dad. This is it. I hope I make you proud."

Kicking the bike forward, Marco Diaz rode screaming into the future upon wheels of fire.


	3. Light of Education

Now for some background about academics in the 6th world.

In short, its mostly drek.

Frankly, any plan that still follows a supposedly agricultural (a stupid myth) break schedule for harvests, planting and winter conditions was hopelessly out of touch with the reality of climate controlled AC, automated farms and snowplows.

And in a world where a fraction of a percent in quarterly earnings could be the difference between a successful take over or insolvency, any delay in the production of worker drones for the corps, especially on a faulty premise, should be ruthlessly eliminated right?

Wrong chummer, and that's because most schools actually aren't in the education business.

Its an oversaturated market with very little return in productivity compared to investing in better drones, fascilities or just more territorial rights for resource extraction. Unless you were in the upper 1% of bleeding edge R&D, and even then it could be hit or miss.

They are in the hope and social control business.

Hope that as long as you keep your head down, follow the rules, and grind through the mundane madness of arbritrarily assigned bullshit from the top, you could get invited to work as a wageslave for a corp and get a (tiny) slice of the fantastic wealth that the corps have at their disposal.

(Supplying a populace with hope was far cheaper than having to deal with anarchist riots and the resulting glut of educated workers that were hopeless in student loan debt to the corps wasn't bad either.)

In fact, given the typical quality of offered "education", arguably for most a much better job could have been done with home schooling given Matrix access and parental involvement.

In other words, fragginh low chance of that happenning!

The last thing most parents want to do after putting in the 12 hour minimum standard work shift (plus however much unpaid overtime if you REALLY loved the corp and didn't want to get fired), even if they had the credits, time, attention, knowledge or energy to spare, is deal with the kids.

Precious down time was best spent zoning out in from of the Trid screen, or exploring the more entertaining parts of the Matrix. Maybe toss back a few low-grade intoxicants or corp approved happy pills with the soy steaks.

Keeping the kids out of trouble and teaching them how to be useful to the corps was outsourced to schools unless you were unlucky enough to not have a job and actually had to parent.

Of course, that was just the general rule.

Exceptions like Miss Wong, whose parent easily won the bid for the exclusive High School Princess (bitch) package, got the best (pitiful), rustic (poor) small town (boring) high school (prison) experience (ordeal) money could buy.

Head cheerleader, valedictorian, even prom queen was all reserved to make her portfolio shine.

Now one could ask, why would such a rich, young, obviously well connected, human girl like Miss Wong even be found in a place like Echo Creek?

Simply put, Miss Wong drew the short straw and got transferred out of her cushy private academy existence to be seen with the unwashed masses for diversity. It was important for the elites to at least make an effort to be seen standing with the holi poli from time to time after all.

Echo Creek Academy was one of those Public Relations stunts the corps engaged. Ostensibly it was a place where anyone, regardless of social class or meta type, could come together as children and get an education her to become productive members of society for a more profitable future.

In reality it was doomed to fail the second some 400lb, 6 foot all troll child decided that it was more fun to just take the lunch money of others instead of suffering through Math Class.

Not that Miss Wong, or any of the other normal human students would ever actually be in a classroom at the same time as orks or trolls would be of course.

Elves, sure. Spreading them out here and there to pretty up the place adds charm. A few of the more precocious ones might even graduate before they hit 20.

Dwarves, why not? Someone has to ace all those STEM subjects and make the school look good during Science Fairs and such.

But Orks and Trolls? Strictly night classes only. After all, they were born with great low light vision and in the case of trolls, can even see heat spectrums so daylight hours were wasted on them.

Strict curfews, and armed guards, ensured the separation. Truancy penalties made sure attendance rules was strictly enforced. But one or two could be allowed on the grounds during staged media presentations if they were vetted, assigned a handler and watched like a hawk.

Of course that meant hiring Ork and Troll teachers.

Because when the "kids" can reach full sexual maturity at age 9, and bench press a desk as a warm up, then the "teachers" better damn well be able to step up in case it ever got violent.

Teachers like Miss Skullnick. The sheer presence of whom had the entire football stand of students sitting quietly and respectfully giving their talent scouts guests of honor plenty of space as they sat observing what "talents" the orks and troll students of Echo Creek could offer.

Part of it was because miss Skullnick was a troll chaperone known for being over a quarter ton mass of muscle, dermal plated skin and a surly attitude.

Another reason was the palpable fear and anticipation wafting through the crowd. Boys and girls that didn't give a damn about drive by shootings, gang wars or math tests (which explained why so many failed really) were desperate to get the attention of possible sponsors. A dead end job pushing a mop was still a job, and a possible way out of slums.

Prove that you were worth a higher security clearance hire though, and it was a ticket out of crushing poverty and into the relatively cushy life of a wage slave.

So maybe, just maybe, if the liked the way ran you moved, handled a gun, or found your antics like painting a face on your belly and making it talk amusing, you could get an invite to join a corp.

(Grades weren't a trog thing for the most part. Thats for management posts. The default Meat Shield and Gun Bunny trog hires don't have to be smart.)

The speakers were blaring out cheesy inspirational music and commentary by Principal Skeeves, a dwarf with a talent for scrounging every credit possible out of the student body.

Dataslates glowed and recorders were fixed out on the foot ball field that was converted into into a well lit obstacle course and display area all in one.

Now Skullnick was a very experienced veteran of the L.A. school system. Surviving over one hundred random school shootings, scheduled shootings, bake sales, awakened animal attacks, field trips and even the vicious backstabbathons of Teacher's Union meetings back in the day before she earned tenure by prying it out of the cold, dead hands of the last troll that had it. (Along with his hair, eyeballs and liver but it wasn't like the guy needed them anymore after losing his head due to budget cuts and her battle-axe.)

She knew that her truly impressive success rate of over 30% meant that at least some of these kids weren't going to end up miserable like her.

And of the 70% that failed, she could say with all honesty that most would still be breathing, maybe even graduated, if they actually payed attention to what she taught and did their homework…probably.

Still, being a goblinized trog, one of the less than attractive people in the 6th world didn't make for an easy life. You were big, strong and scary sure, but it didn't help you live long, get smart and retire with full pension benefits.

She'd seen scores of trog kids grow up fast, try to make it using just brute force and get geeked faster than they could blink. Everything from a pixie with a monoblade to an out of control opossum spirit, to just plain not looking both ways before crossing the street took their toll. She got to be old only because she was very lucky.

But every now and then, a rising star would emerge. And that star, was Marco Diaz. : )

A once in a lifetime student that could unite the rival gangs, get the dwarven tech geeks to work with the orc hooligans, pay off the police, bribe the staff (herself included of course), win the endorsement of a NAN council and even attract the right kind of Corp attention.

If his plan worked, and by the way the recruiters were nodding, her success rate could jump all the way up to 50%, snagging her an unheard of bonus and quite an upgrade for her retirement. She'd be able to hang up her battle axe for good. Maybe run off to Azcapulctzolt.

Speaking of the boy, the star of the show was getting ready for the stage. Her eyes spotting his bike's heat signature as he reved it up in the shadows beyond the field.


	4. What is thy bidding?

(Author's notes: Been on haitus for a good long while till SVTFOE bought me back to the old fanfic writing hobby. Realized that you actually CAN forget how to do this. I seriously can't even remember any of the old tips like when to use 1st, 2nd or third person. And somehow I broke spellchecker. :P Drek. Anyway, comments and critique welcome. Maybe someone can remind how to do these things. Also, I take requests.)

Marco reared back and toggled the nitro a split second before he hit the ramp. Rocketing the bike and himself over the fence, into the air where he could get an eagle's eye view of the field.

He really hope the sound of himself screaming would be covered up by the engine's roar or just be taken as bravado.

Pistols in hand, Marco quickly spotted the 13 target dummies he requested be arrayed close and started firing by feel, Master Woo's teachings letting him rock 12 targets before he jumped off, his bike crushing the last traget while he tucked and rolled to avoid breaking bones.

He spun to his feet at the end of his roll and threw both pistols up, freeing hands to toss shurikens, throwing knives and darts in rapid succession, displaying speed and savagery as the wobbling dummies became like pin cushions. He stopped only to snatch the now falling pistols out of the air and pose just as his thrown weapons exploded, turning the targets arround him into fiery kindling, illuminating him for all to see.

"Now presenting the most promising candidate of Echo Creek Academy's Ork Outreach Program...MARCO DIAZ!" Announcing on the field with a bullhorn was Principal Skeeves. The bald, bespeckled little dwarf was going all out to shill his best offer. Lighting, music, props. The whole bit.

Up in the stands, Ferg was leading the crowd in chanting Marco's name. Promises of referals as much as spectacle making the cheer especially spirited.

Struggling to appear calm and controlled, Marco opened his eyes and prayed the recruiters were impressed. Staged displays were common enough to make even the most genuinely impressive feats seem fake. He almost squeed in excitement when he felt a few mystical scrys touch him. Urgent warning buzzes came from his pda as it sensed active pings. Clearly some of them were intruiged and watching him closely now.

Good. More interest meant a higher potential price.

Marco handed off his pistols to be inspected for smartlinks or magical tampering to his acting squire and court jester Ferg, displaying proper Knight Errant weapons relinquishing rites to distinguish him from the usual dime a dozen street gangers that couldn't even spell etiquette.

Then he began to strip.

Someone wolf whistled.

"That's right ladies and gentlmen! 100% natural ork! No cyber tricks for this home grown Adept of the Warrior Arts! Wouldn't you want someone like him on your security detail?"

Marco was down to a his loincloth and a tiny satchet of sacred powder. Thanking his luck that it wasn't cold tonight as he walked closer to let everyone see why he would be a great asset. Next to the stands were some props to really showcase his skills.

"This diamond in the rough is sure to be a safe and profitable investment to the savy recruiter! Look at that herculean build! That chisled physique! Those rock hard abs! Ladies and gentlemen, rest your doubts! This here is the real deal!"

Dedicated, disciplined, desperate...and drugged to the gils on powdered Dream, (the substance of choice when you want to commune with the spirit world or just get really, really high :P). These were all factors as Marco concentrated on his breathing. The power was igniting from deep within, resonating with the universe as he called forth everything he had.

His blood was roaring in his ears by the time he was in position. The heat from his inner fire filling him with power and reality fell before his eyes with each heart beat. The illusions of space and time fell before the moment of infinite possibilities. The here and now was merely a crossroad.

And in the blink between eternities, he struck.

Blocks of concrete were shattered under his fist. Iron rebar bent into pretzels. A stone warrior statue had its arm torn off, the head kicked into the distance for a field goal and after taking several strides back, had a hole the size of a fist appear in its middle when Marco shouted a ki attack.

Then Marco casually walked up to what was left of the statue and poked it in the chest.

The whole thing turned to a pile of dust.

Marco heard clapping, a rare event but Skeeves wasn't through yet.

"Highest test scores for an Ork in Echo Creek history! Fluent in English, Aztlander, and Japanese! Also conversant in and Navajo, Apahce, Shoshone, Paiuet, Chomash, Cantonese, Mandarin, Danish, German, French, Ploynesian..."

Ok, so most of it was overselling drek, but not totally. Being part of a safehouse network meant you get exposed to all sorts of people. You pick up a few things here and there.

"Also capable of minor grid repairs, plumbing, electical work, there is no end to the jobs this boy can be turned toward! Its a lucky company that gets to have him on their roll!"

A true warrior seizes any advantage in a contest. And being a warrior that can also be a handyman is a true advantage that is often overlooked in the resumes of amatures. Unemployed amatures.

"But thats not all! Today you have a chance to purchase a trully multitalented chef capable of creating Tex-mex, classical French, and Japanese sushi dishes! Seriously, you'd have to be crazy not to want this guy working for you."

Somehow, Marco didn't think cutting up mutant narwhal corpses really counted, but it was technically true.

"And to top it off, he's been taught to play the piano, sculpt, paint, sing and dance! More that just a gun totting savage, this is a true renaissance ork!"

Drunken karaoke night, and thanks to whatever the hell Alfonzo slipped into the hurlg, messing around with dad's art supplies across town and somehow ending up with him in a dress.

A pink, poofy dress.

Janna still takes the damn thing out of the closet on special occasions.

"We will start the bidding as a low, low bargain price of 10,000 pesos! Do we have 10,000? 20,000? Does anyone want to snatch up this strapping Ork lad for a mere 30,000 pesos? Do I hear 40?"

The reason why Echo Creek used pesos instead of a more universally accepted credit like the nuyen for student contracts, was some archaic Azlander tradition. Tearing out still beating hearts of slaves may have fallen out of favor but the paperwork for it stuck arround. It caused only minor grumbling as the bidders used their personal comps to automatically calculate currency conversions.

Marco flexed his muscles and casually scanned the crowed. His eyes still glowed faintly from the foccused ki and the view of the mundane world had not yet returned.

In place of the football field where so many of brave young orks had met their doom with dreams of making it big in Urban Brawl, Marco saw the scenes of futures that could be playing before him.

"100 thousand pesos." Called a winged snake entwined on a stick. The Doc Wagon Franchise willing to take a chance once they heard of his excellent volunteer medic work.

"200 thousand pesos." Said a puppet. Marco could make out the Wu Xiang scout under golden chains.

"300 thousand pesos." A jade abacus wearing a formal kimono stood up. Standing was a signal that it was the final bid. While Renraku was obviously prejudiced against trogs, the price was respectable. Any less and it would cost face, unacceptable to any firm that held reputation in high esteem. Still, Renraku wasn't going to waste more time and money on him, and the bidder bowed out, her bids following her back to the company van when a higher call was shouted.

"400 thousand pesos." A concealing cloak with glowing eyes stared as she called out her bid. Their eyes meeting and knowing that each SAW the other. Marco wondered what she was seeing as she looked at him. The rules of Astral Sight were subjective and personal. With spending years in pursuit of enlightenment, even a functioning Astral Mirror would only reveal what one believed of oneself instead of the truth.

"500 thousand pesos." A shiny copper badge of Lone Star stood and tipped his cowboy hat at Marco. It was a bit of a gamble if no one outbidded with department funds sorely needed elsewhere, but Marco still appreciated the gesture of trust and respect. Boosting the bidding price before it hit a lull near the end, the local sherif walking away after that single bid. A favor repayed.

"550 thousand pesos." The cloak stood as she spoke again, hands clutching a necklace and mumbling calculations of costs.

"550 thousand! Do we have any other bids? Because its 550 thousand going once! 550 thousand going twice..." The animated ball of slime stretched out the call. Waiting for a sign.

"650 thousand pesos." The puppet with golden chains stood and declared his final bid. Head tilted as it listened to instructions from HQ.

Marco turned to look at the Wu Xiang puppet and bowed. The amount was a little too high of course, but not quite beyond belief. It took a few backroom deals and favors to arrange but clearly Wu Xiang was the logical choice.

Which was why he rigged it in advance.

"650 thousand! You sir, have moxy! 650 thousand going once! 650 thousand going twice!" Skeeves quick counted, having been let in on the expected maximum beforehand.

Marco's martial skills and aptituted for math was a perfect fit for the quiet, mystically seeped company of calculating geomancers and famously skilled adepts. Their emphasis on discretion and dedication promised to make life with them smooth, calm, quiet and above all, safe.

He certainly could use more safe in his life.

"667 THOUSAND PESOS!" Shouted the cloak. Her hand had torn her tiara off her head along with her other jewels. An imperius look dared anyone to challenge her rebellious act of breaking tradition by presenting another bid after standing.

Marco froze in surprise along with the puppet, both unsure how to deal with the unexpected but Skeeves, the walking sleeze ball, didn't even hesitate at the better opportunity.

"667 thousand pesos going once! 667 thousand going twice! SOLD for 667 thousand pesos!"

Mouthing a silent appology to the puppet that was getting an earful through his com from the looks of it, Marco turned instead to the Butterfly.

Despite the unexpected change, he felt pride at the final bid. His price broke all previous records.

He did it.

Marco Diaz had earned himself a SIN.


	5. Master?

What? You think everything was just all living happily ever after?

Get real.

After the hubbab died down, the actual work started.

Or at least the paperwork did.

Marco was the last bid so the others were already saying their goodbyes, reaffirming promises of keeping in touch and trading contact information as they were either sent on their way with strict appointments or taken away for futher processing on corp territory.

Marco though, was headed for the Principal's Office to sign his contract.

He had stopped by a commandeered restroom where a meditating Shadow in the shape of Janna was lying on the floor. She was resting like a cocooned grub in a yellow sleeping bag that made her look lika bananna of all things. Half between the waking world and Dream, she was with him every second in Spirit on the field and provided Mystical Overwatch. A feat more taxing than most Mundanes could ever comprehend.

Discouraging anyone who might enter by slapping an Out of Order sign and spilling a forboding puddle of some dubious looking brown water, made from stale soycaf stolen from the teacher's lounge, was her idea, along with keeping his dry cleaning there to change after the show. A murmured compliment about his ass was her only contribution as he changed.

Marco sighed as he leaned down and tucked her in, zipping her up before drinking the cleansing and revitaling cup of tea she had made for him earlier. Something to bring him back to earth and slowly ease off the high before his systems cooked. He refilled the cup from a kettle and left it on the floor for her to drink later.

Later when he left the room, he was ready for business.

Now dressed in a formal suit and tie. Marco gave one tug to the infernal thing choking him and concluded that suits were not made for orks like him.

It was not his style, felt increadibly restrictive and unarmored but he couldn't justify buying better since the occasions he'd be wearing a suit were all too rare. Not like orks get promoted to management regularly.

Hopefully he would never have to wear it again.

Technically, he was already on contract, but a contract purchase was only the first phase. The second phase was what made or broke you.

Contract negotiation.

Or more accurately, begging.

Since being bought outright came first. How you were treated by the corp was really up their whim and how good a deal you could wrangle out of them after the fact.

Terms like expected compensation, hours, duties, perks if any, could at the very least, discussed.

But not at length of course, that would be bad form and mark you as a difficult employee.

Often times, with student contracts, it could be informal to the point where the papers would effectively be written on stationary but showing up ready and able to present formal documents and bargain earnestly always helps.

"Ok Marco Ubaldo Diaz, this is the home stretch. Don't fuck it up now."

With Principal Skeeve's office in view, Marco had to force himself to stay calm and keep breathing. Pushing away the nevers as he approached, for lack of a better word, Skeeves lair. The joke was that the Principal actually lived there just to run up overtime. The magical wards which distorted astral vision and electronic counter measures built into the room were certainly there for a reason. Perhaps it might even be there to ensure privacy with so many nosy delingquents like Oskar about.

Who, despite hating authority and authority figures with a passion, was only able to dig up an unusually large order for 52 flavors of iced soycream. Bets were still being placed as wether there was a fridge, toilet, bed or bath in there.

The principal's smokey glass door showed the room lights inside were flickering oddly but he paid it no mind. Funding for maintainance wasn't always what it should be, specially if Skeeves was skimming a little bit more that month

Knocking on the dot, Marco waited for a mere moment before the slimey and credit sign festooned shape of Principals Skeeves opened the door and pulled him in. His vision still not returning quite to normal despite the tea it seems.

"Marco my boy! Come and meet your new employeers! Mr. and Mrs. Johnson!"

Weird.

Johnson's usually operated alone. The unwritten rules of the game stated that one does not make inquiries about Johnsons. Not what their real names are, not why they wanted whatever they wanted done and certainly not which company the Johnson was hiring Shadowrunners for, but then again, today seemed to be all about the weird.

Still, Marco kept silent. No one wants a nosy employee after all.

There was a trio in the room, all of them wearing concealing cloaks and hoods. The kind that cost a small fortune each and must have been enchanted against mystical scrying because he could see little of them with his mystic sight beyond the fact that they were hard to scry and not from around here. Their aura felt foreign. As if the spirits did not know them.

The leader was clearly a woman who stood centerstage and stared at him with a hard, calculating look, and the other seemed to be some squat dwarf like Skeeves.

The last one was playing with the light switch for some reason.

Focussing on the one who was likely the boss, Marco formally bowed at the waist, but kept his eyes locked on to the woman.

Showing deference was good for lackeys.

Warriors needed to display some spine.

"Greetings, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. My name is Marco Ubaldo Diaz. How may I be of service?"

A tense moment passed before the woman nodded slowly. "Star, come meet your Prince."

 _Wait, what did she just say?_

The light stopped flickering and the third turned to face him and pulled down her hood.

Marco gazed into the most enchanting baby blues and felt his heart skip a beat. She was fair and blonde with artistic biomods on her cheeks of frozen blue hearts. Her dress was an impossibly fancy blue ball gown with glittering jewels. She was a slim beauty that was just at the beginning cusp of womanhood and held herself with a regal grace that made a dazzling smile seem even brighter upon her youthful face.

"Oh greetings my prince! I am princess Star Butterfly. From which kingdom do you hail?" She even curtsied with elegant flair and her voice was like musical chimes.

And Marco couldn't be more repulsed.

His eyes could still see past mere sight and he knew with gut wrenching certainty what she was.

A girl screaming at the sight of him on the inside while she gave fawning looks on the outside.

This wasn't just some spaced out junkie or chip head.

She was a Bunraku meat puppet. Completely chip slaved and personafixed out of her own mind but without a datafilter.

Marco fought the urge to retch even as his heart skipped. She was the type of girl he had a weakness for. The kind of beautiful that biosculp specialists strived for, and only the most genetically blessed could ever hope to achieve but not even other worldly beauty could make up for the horror of what was done to her.

The only flaw he could see were faint marks around her face. It looked oddly out of place given the level of her body mods and the quality of the raw material in question.

Probably somebody's living fucktoy. A pervert with a princess fetish. Some sicko who liked to pretend he was a...prince.

Oh. Drek.


	6. Your Mission, Regardless If You Choose

Marco was no innocent.

He did plenty of things he was not proud of.

Thing that should probably get himself and Janna arrested for crimes against nature really, but this was just wrong.

Marco wanted to take the girl into his arms and run. Kick down the door, geek anyone who got in his way and just go. He would tell her that everything would be alright. That he would save her and take her far, far away from all this and from this day on he would be her hero. Her friend.

But what did instead, to his utter disgust, was to ignore the girl's inner sobbing and ask the woman. "What is my assignment?"

Spirits, he even managed to sound PROFESSIONAL when he said that.

What sort of monster would do this?! And what sort of monster was he for going along with it!?

"This is Princess Star Butterfly. My most precious child."

Her own mother. Of fragging course.

"You task is as follows. From now on, you are her guide for life in this world. You will house and attend to her. She is to be given her own private bedroom and toilet. The lack of attending chamber maids or ladies in waiting will be tolerated for the time being. You shall prepare her a proper breakfast every morning at 7:00 am sharp, burnch at 10. Lunch at 12 noon and high tea at 3 pm. Her dinner must be served no later than 6 pm and by 7 pm it is time for her to retire and prepare herself for the evening in your home."

Marco just blinked for a few moments before he noticed the expectant look he was getting. "Wait, so let me get this straight. My job is to...babysit?"

The woman actually scoffed at that. "No. I want you to have fun with her."

"..."

"Is there a problem?"

Frag it, Marco loosened the tie and dropped the professional act.

"Look lady, I'm going to ask you to be very clear with your instructions here because I'm getting the impression you want me to take her for a test run."

"Yes! That is it exactly! Bring her along the next time you have an illicit little something sheduled. Don't be affraid to really get down and dirty. In fact, the more improper the better. Bring your friends along, if you want. I'm sure much fun will be had by all."

Marco found that he could do nothing but nod numbly in shock. The girl's inner wail of despair either unnoticed or ignored by all present. In the mundane world she was tittering adorably.

In the spirit world, Marco was glaring at everyone. The veil of tragedy was being set on stage as threads of fate and desire wound arround the girl like a hangman's noose.

"You do realize she is basically a brainwashed meat puppet right now right?"

There was a heavy sigh as the woman continued. "Yes, I am well aware of her condition and the fact that she requires a...different approach. Rest assured, I've consulted the finest psychiatrists in the land and they all assured me that her condition can be reversed with time and a short break from her normal routine. Hence why you are hired. Your duty is to inform me the very moment her fascade cracks and deliver her to me immediately. Are we clear?"

Marco willed himself to show no emotion and just say calmly: "Crystal clear Mrs. Johnson."

As the pieces fell into place for Marco, he could honestly say that he had never felt more sickened or disgusted by a Johnson before.

The girl was probably some high class geisha's daughter. Pretty successful for a time but not enough to spring for leonizing treatments to restore youth. Falling out of fashion was inevitable but she was wise enough to save and get a very fat bank account as retirement though. And looks like it was all spent on the girl. Biosculting at that level couldn't have been cheap.

But mommy's plan to re-enter the high life by peddling her daughter to the high ranking corporate exes hit a snag when the daughter turned into a teenager and started to rebel. Throwing out what was probably an all or nothing scheme into a flaming disaster that required drastic action to fix.

A lobotomy and artificial personality overlay on even a quality girl would just have resulted in a generic toy any executive could rent by hour at a posh Joy Club. A programed personality wasn't quite the same as a genuine concious choice to be a professional geisha after all.

What was being ordered was a preview of life if girls didn't behave. Life as a street level, penniless, SINless, two bit shadowrunning ork's bitch.

If that didn't teach the brat to behave and listen to mommy, nothing will.

Then the woman punched Princess Star Butterfly in the face.

Marco was in between them in an eyeblink, a snarling berzerker that could shatter boulders with a single blow was given the exact same attention as an annoying insect and when she casually shoved him aside so hard he flew through the air and was was imbeded into Principal's Skeeve's wall, made of reinforced concrete with armaplast plating, he understood why.

Princess Star Butterfly was carefully examined, the hand the struck her cheek tipped the girl's chin up as the woman gazed into faintly green glowing eyes and twitching smile.

"Remember. When you are ready, come back to me. I'll be waiting for you. Now go outside. I have much to discuss with your prince."

A faint image of a blue eldritch figure with six arms, gossamer wings and so much magical might her eyes were like infernos to his candle was what he glimpsed before he pulled himself out and charged.

He was a Warrior, he would not appear weak.

Which was what he thought until a vice grip at his throat hauled him off his feet and smashed him back into the wall.

Then the ceiling. Then the floor. Wall again. Ceiling. Wall. Wall. Floor. Ceiling. Wall.

The only people left in the room after the impromptu demolition was him, the woman, and Principal Skeeves who was cowering behind his desk. Bastard certainly wasn't going to activate the automated defenses or hit the panic button on his behalf.

"One last thing. I saw the way you looked at her. Heed my words. If you so much as make me suspect you will not uphold the deal, I will find you. Hunt down everyone you know and love. Then I will feed them to you. Alive. Do we have an understanding here?"

Bones were unbroken, blood had not spilled, but being treated like a pingpong ball gave Marco time to control his anger. He knew when it was time to kick ass and when to kiss ass.

"Yeah...boss."


	7. Haunting Past

It was only a few hours before dawn by the time Marco staggered out of the office.

His suit torn to ragged shreds, one shoe lost in the farcas along with what felt like a badly twisted ankle, face looking like it was used to batter holes in armor plating, pretty much everything from head to toe was a patchwork of bruises which would be hell to deal with once the adrenaline and shock wore off.

Already he could feel a whole body pain starting to radiate like thousands of cactus needles making themselves known as the last of the Dream was leaving his bloodstream. The measured dose being formulated for a quick display and not a long Spirit Walk.

Still things could have been worse.

But not by much.

His plan was all in shambles, he was a battered mess and got humiliated before his usual fixer, Skeeves. The same slimey git who had kept him after the Johnson left and demanded he pay for all damages or else video of a certain ork getting curb stomped would find its way into the Matrix.

(Marco managed to talk Skeeves down to a few off the books jobs after pointing out that both their reps would take a hit if anyone found out Skeeves just let a client wail on the school's model ork student. Not to mention what he was hired to do. The typical shadowrunner may be scum, but even scum had standards.)

And to top it all off, the contract he got SUCKED!

No advanced signing bonus, no retainer, no expense account, no new toys or even a number to call in case of trouble.

He was looking like a nobo hobo in his quest for a SIN.

About the only good news was that he could confirm that indeed there was a bed, bath and toilet in there after his head got bashed halfway through one of the walls.

Data should be worth some chump change.

Which was exactly how much he was worth apparently.

Marco Diaz. Rapist for hire! No job too disgusting for this ork! No run too shady! Bring your rebellious daughters and if they were young, blonde and pretty, you get a discount! Guaranteed to be all nice and docile afterwards and without even a permanent disfiguring mark on her or get your money back!

Looks like all those years trying to cultivate a repuation as an outsanding ork of honor choose this day of all days to amount to nothing again.

Marco opened one of his many, many tricked out backup lockers with a fake identity (always handy in case you need deniablity if contraband was found) and pulled out a medkit. The mirror inside gave him a good look at his face. His tusked, ork face.

He gave it a good long stare before he snapped.

"MERDE! SCHEISE ENT KRIEG HOFFA! EL GATOS MUY NOV KRESKIE ROLLATA..." A punch shattered the mirror, glass shards digging into his knuckles as his inner turmoil left him without the strengthening effect of ki. With each subsequent blow more glass from the bloody mirror ground into his fists but he was too angry to care. Every vitrolic curse and profanity he could muster was screamed back at the ruined reflection.

A wild punch broke through the whole thing and Marco found himself stuck. Bracing a foot to the lockers, he tore it out and smashed the mess of metal and glass to the floor. Blood dripping from his hands as he panted.

Oh who was he kidding. No matter what rep or persona he tried to build up, Safe Kid, Valiant Vaquero, Misunderstood Badboy, Karate Master or Badass Biker, he would always be an ork. Society's born pariah to do jobs decent folk wouldn't do.

And the sad thing was, they were right.

He had done terrible things before...but now he HAD do it. He didn't have a choice.

He had done too much and come too far to turn back now. Too many had sacrificed for him. Lay their hopes on him. Needed him.

She probably had a pretty good life. Smooth and sweet ride up til now. And even if he did...do this. It would be for her own good. She was going to get through this and move on.

One day he would just be a bad memory.

Her life would get back on track. She would wear pretty dresses, attend fancy parties, suck up to some spoiled corp brat and she would live like a real princess for the rest of her life. Pampered and far, far away from orks like him forever.

But If he refused or, or showed that he didn't have what it took, then he would be blacklisted as a bottom rung runner, SINless and destined to amount to nothing.

And then someone else would be hired to do the job anyway.

A job that was total scuzz and vomit work.

But it was a job that payed in SIN.

And when Marco Diaz got a SIN, he could do so much with it. His family could move into corp territory where they could get proper medical care. His friends would have a contact on the inside. He'd make good money. Enough to make a huge difference for Echo Creek. The lives of everyone he knew would improve even if he could never look at himself in a mirror ever again.

Marco nodded.

He tried to imagine how much hurlg he'd need to go through with it and wondered if killing himself by alcohol poisoning counted as giving up or dying in the attempt.

Didn't matter in the end. He'll do it his way.

Now to pull his head of out of his ass and find Pri...

"Greetings my Prince!"

"Gaaah!" Marco spun arround, to find himself being pulled into a kiss. The taste of tea filled his mouth as tounge slipped past his lips and insistent hands held his face while the enchanting image of Princess Star Butterfly gave him a tonsil tickling that would have cost extra from a joy girl.

"My love! You are hurt! Please let my adoration for you be as a salve for your wounds!"

Without hesitation, she knelt before him and started to lick his hands, the feel of a soft, moist tounge and warm wafting breathe over his bloody finggers was heavenly.

The way she was looking up at him, fierce yet gentle was stirring primal things in him. Being an ork meant more than just being big, strong, ugly and dying young. When you are alive, you are more alive. When your heart beats, it beat without reservation. Every breath you take has the power of the moment. Every emotion burned within you.

Part of Marco wanted to just let it happen. After all the drek, part of him wanted nothing more than to forget the last few hours, pin her against the wall, hike up her skirt and bang her until he came twice.

But he didn't. Spirits, did he ever want to though.

Mindful of his injuries and not wanting to cause any more, it took Marco a few tries before he could pick up the vision of lovliness and yell.

"Janna! Cut that out!"

Star's image faded before his eyes and turned into an impishly smiling Janna, who was currently wearing Miss Butterfly's clothes.

And wearing it very well.

The elegant blue princess dress was stretched taunt on the frame of a fully grown, 14 year old ork woman. It now looked like the clothes of a wanton wench. The laces up front had to be undone because of Janna's generous mounds. Even the slightest breathe threatened to tear the straining fabric. Shoulders were bare, the skirt was torn and showed a scandalous amount of leg and panties and ...and...wait a minute.

Oh shit.

If Janna was wearing that, then what was Princess Star Butterfly wearing?

"JANNA! Where is Princess?" Marco could feel an oncoming headache. This was why having Janna with you wasn't always a great idea.

"Relax Lover Boy." Janna danced out of his hands and with a playful twirl, ended up leaning against the lockers. A quick hammer fist blow popped a locker door open to reveal a neatly stashed Princess Star Butterfly.

Wearing Janna's fetish festooned beanie, an eye patch, and clothes that Marco could only vaugely describe as a oversized punk rock goth chick clothes.

She looked sillly, yet cute as a little girl playing dress up.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of him. "Greetings my prince! You are hurt! Please let my..."

Marco slammed the locker shut before she could finish that sentence and facepalmed as his now growing migraine was making even thinking a painful endevor.

"You stole the clothes off her back!?"

"Oh course not Marco Diaz! How could you even think such a thing of me?" Janna pouted and hugged him from behind.

"I asked for them. She stripped them off just like that. And here I was, being nice enough to give this poor, sweet, innocent, helpless Chip Slave some of my old clothes so she wouldn't be naked...unless that is what you want Marco? You like your sweet young innocent blonde girls naked don't you Marco? All wet and ready for you?"

"Janna, stop." Marco squirmed a bit. Janna's hands were running down his body, tenderly caressing his bruises. Muttered healing chants easing his pain as her magic flowed into him. Glass tinkled as they fell out of his knuckles and onto the floor.

"Bet we can do all sorts of eechi things to her. Pretty sure she is a virgin too. Never even been kissed! Bet you wanna pop ALL her cherries huh? Pound a perfect princess pedo fantasy like her all day and night until she breaks."

"Janna. Stop." He could feel her nuzzling his neck. One hand was undoing his belt. The other hand opened the locker. Exposing Princess Star Butterfly to the sight of a hot and bothered ork.

"Greetings my Prince! Do you wish to ravish me?"

Marco slammed the locker back shut so hard the metal crumpled in his grip.

"Janna. Stop. Please."

Marco heard her laugh and slip infront of him. Jackie Lynn Thomas stared back up at him tearfully. Her clothes disheveled, lip split, a black eye.

"Did you stop when I begged you to stop Marco?"

Marco's backhand snapped through the air before he knew it.

It was just a mundane move. Stone wouldn't have shattered and metal wouldn't have buckled under it. But against Janna it was enough to throw her to the floor.

Janna looked up at him blankly. Her cheek reddening from his hand.

Marco froze in shock.

"Janna I..." The sound of running feet filled the tense silence.,

"Knew you were in trouble. Major bad mojo flashed through even Cicero's Concealing Circle so I called your friends. Talk later."

And with that, Janna tossed him his com, gathered up the tattered princess dresss, darted into a locker and shut it behind her just as Ferguson and Alfonzo came rounding a hallway corner. Inbetween them they carried Oskar, the legless ork had his arms slung around the back of their necks.

Oskar waved as the others huffed and puffed carrying him. "Marco! Got your message. Looks like you're going to need your old crew to finish the last run before you go legit after all eh chum? Don't worry. I'll charge you the usual rates and waive the Drop Everything And Ride To My Rescue Fee. You did the same for me when my car broke down enough times after all."

 _Breathe. Inhale. Take a breathe. Blink you stupid trog!_

"Marco? You alright? You haven't looked this upset since that one time I ate your birthday cake when we were in the 2nd grade. " Ferguson waved a hand infront of Marco's face. Causing the later to flinch back, staggering from his rotund friend in a daze.

"Marco? Whats wrong? Need a snort of Pixie Dust man?" Alfonzo offered up a small packet of crytals. The dusky and lanky ork's supplier may be a psychotic murderous bitch, but she knew her Pixie Dust. One snort made even the lowest chump feel like a king.

"Guys...guys...I'm fine. Just give me a minute. It was Janna again."

The tense silence returned as his three friends exchanged a look.

"Is Janna here right now Marco?" Oskar asked carefully.

"No. We got into a fight. I...I hurt her Oskar. I didn't mean to but I did. I messed up. I messed up so bad."

Marco wasn't crying. More because of numbness than any attachment to his rep as a badass.

"Uh...what were you fighting about?" Oskar promted again. Familiar with the way Marco got from time to time.

"Her." The badly abused locker was opened and revealed Princess Star Butterfly to the new arrivals.

"Greetings mmmph?" Marco clamped a hand over her mouth. In no mood to deal with her fragging head glitches right now.

"Oh Drek!" Ferguson immidiately dropped Oskar and tried to run for it. He made it past 20 feet before he had to stop and catch his breathe.

"I swear she was like that when I got here officer!" Alfozo also dropped Oskar at the sight of Star and was curled up on the ground, extensive experience with getting arrested gave him a prefered position. Ass up and hands over his head.

"Would you two idiots shut up and pick me up! If this was a sting or a set up, there would have been more bodies around. My spiders haven't picked up anyone. Its just us you spineless wimps."

"Oh!" Ferg and Alfoz exclaimed as they came to their senses and pick up Oskar.

The rigger gave his two chums a glare before turning his ire to Marco. "Explain."

Marco took a deep breathe and decided to give it to them straight.

"Got no downed to a damnation gig. J-writ all over. Serious hot cog grind time with no wiz tech. Plus an insta kill wire line with complete wash off while all on empty. Gonna have to jump sideways and dark out the lords for a while. Hope they understand. Probably can still silver bell this. Chime in when the tides are smooth."

Straight street chant.

A form of language that changed depending on which neighborhood you were from, who you grew up with, and even what was shown on trid last night.

Sometimes, about the only people who understood you were the ones that were with you from the very start. Same block. Same street. Same struggle.

All three orks nodded. Having clearly understood the message. But Oskar was the one who had to break it to him.

"Marco, we are four orks with and a beautiful blonde, rich looking, human girl. One that looks like she's BTLing out of her mind and wearing an eyepatch because she just got punched in the face! Ain't no way we gonna make it without calling attention to ourselves and getting caught by every cop with a working eye!"

"That won't be a problem because I'm not trying to get her to a safe house. I'm trying to pull a Seatle Soft Shoe."

Ferg blinked. "But we don't have a violin!"

"That was the French Fiddler. Also, we don't have time to stop at a stuffer shack."

Ferg's expansive stomach growled at that. "Why not just use the Hong Kong Hotpot?"

"Because the last time we tried that, we almost got scalped by angry Apaches! Look, I hate to be that guy, but I need to know. In or out?" Marco held out his hand, following custom older than the streets.

Alfonzo slapped as much Pixie Dust and credits as he had on onto Marco's hand. Enough to trip out for a day and a meal at a dinner besides. "You had me at smooth Marco."

Oskar laughed and added his hand on top of Alfonzo's. "Rigger at your service you bastard."

Ferguson was last as usual. "You better be buying after this is all over."

* * *

Dawn at Echo Creek Academy was treated to an unusual sight.

Two red hooded figures on a custom bike was seen tearing away from the school. A custom chopper known to belong to one Marco Diaz, the Blood Red Rider, who was reputed to ride alone since the day he earned his name. Heading straight towards the vast wilderness of NAN territory, electronic fines pinging automatically into the system as red lights and speed limits were ignored.

Then there was the barely functioning piece of crap that was quietly exiting the parking lot at way below the speed limit. Its reflective windows tinted up to the max. Giving the occupants total privacy as the clunker inched its way downtown. Full of garages, motels and other accomodations.

Minggling with the foot traffic of incoming students set to attend day classes were two nondescript figures in oddly concealing clothing. The taller one held the shorter one's hand insistently as the pair made their way to the barrios. Teaming with all sorts of SINless that would make them blend in perfectly.


	8. Trails

Leaf Tosser, steadfast Brave of the Shoshone, first among the Riverside Riders, decorated Lone Star Border Patrol Deputy and father of four beautiful daughters, was having a bad day.

Upon the horizon of the breaking dawn, his long viewer spotted the Red Hood on his cycle, Nachos, heading straight towards the North River Bridge and gateway to his home, the Shoshone's village of Pummathek. Best shopping stop for authentic animal components and pumpkin flavoring concentrate in California.

The tales of the Ork Shadowrunner's daring exploits, his ferocious strength in battle, his savage good looks, were pretty much all his daughters talked about ever since that nasty business with the would be grave robbers.

His wife was no help in this matter. A shameless songstrel that sang for coin and applause. She actually encouraged his sweet, innocent girls to act like brazen flip skirts to catch the Red Hood's interest.

Short dresses, tight leggings, unbuttoned jackets…admittedly, that was how she got his attention, but still!

Damn that Anglo woman. Just being friendly she said. Just stay for a night she said. No strings attached she said.

Twenty years and four daughters later, he was still sleeping in her teepee.

Well, whatever his personal feelings, it was his duty as a sworn officer of the law and upholder of NAN accords to stop the Red Hood. Not sporting a proper RFID embedded NAN emblem on your vehicle meant you did not pass by the council's reservation office for a permit and are a run away from the generous reservation lands the NAN granted outsiders.

The fact that his daughters were in the village along with their damn mother was just a coincidence.

Taking a pouch of hawk feathers and horse hair, Leaf Tosser chanted the sacred words to invoke the aid of wind spirits for his steed, Gale Runner. With the help of spirits, even a temperamental young colt could outrace Anglo machines.

As the fetish vanished, his horse reared up and let loose a wild bay of excitement. Hooves flailing as it leapt out from behind the billboard advertising Soylent Soda and raced across the long black rock of highway 88 to the sound of blazing sirens.

Hooves ran as if on air, the clop of horseshoe on asphalt absent as mystic energies seemed to spark at every tread. The winds seemed to carry rider and horse ever faster towards their target.

Seeing from another angle, Leaf Tosser was surprised to see two red hooded figures on Nachos. His implanted cyber right eye did ID the bike as Nachos but his recorded M.O. was as a lone rider.

The second rider had long blonde hair streaming out from under a concealing hood, sitting in the back with arms practically glued to the Rider's body. Both were decked in protective pleathers under their matching red hooded biker clothes.

Nachos reared up into a wheelie while the ork laughed. The front wheels slamming back to the ground just in time for non street legal boosters to kick in and rocket the two away at blistering speed.

Touching a beaded lasso, Leaf Tosser urged his horse to keep pace and started to swing the rope overhead. Idol of his girls or not, no one defied the law and got away with it. Chanting a hex at the bike caused it to slow and stall as its engines choked on ghostly entanglements.

Not to be undone, the bike swerved hard into the trees, breaking line of sight and regaining power to force its way through the foliage.

Leaf Tosser followed, confident that riding a strong horse through rough terrain was a much better idea than a mere bike that didn't have any connection to the land.

He was wrong.

It was as if the bike and rider were one. Man and machine melded together as a single wild beast that surpassed all of Leaf Tosser's estimations of a rider. Tightly hugging the ground swells and low dips like a stalking cat, juking past trees swifter than a deer in flight, and darting into the bush faster than a startled rabbit at the barest glimpse Leaf Tosser could manage on Red Hood.

For a moment, Leaf Tosser could swear the bike changed direction while the rider was using his hands to perform a rude gesture.

Undeterred, Leaf Tosser touched several beads on his chest in sequence and beseeched his ancestor spirits to lend him their aid. Within moments his sight grew sharper, his hands more steady, his mount more sure, and so the chase went on.

They played a deadly game of cat and mouse in the forest, the determined whine of his horse and roar of an engine breaking the tranquility of the forest as cop and criminal tried to outride the other.

Sometimes Leaf Tosser could just get a clear line sight, other times his flagging horse had to be bought around as the ranger was outmaneuvered but always the prospect of being the officer on record arresting the Red Hood was tantalizingly close. His name would be spoken with honor in the lodges for months for such a feat.

This continued on for some time until the Red Hood blundered. Having mistaken a relatively clear hill as open ground instead of an impassable cliff overlooking the riverside village. Leaf Tosser smiled at that. Cuffing such a worth adversary in full view of the Shoshone would be highlight of his year.

The cliff was fast approaching and with nowhere to go, Rider would have to double back into Leaf Tosser's spell range.

What happened next would make Leaf Tosser swear off the pipe for days.

Not slowing down, the Red Hood boosted the bike even faster, hurtling towards the edge where hundreds of pounds of bike would land amongst the villagers. Endangering the lives of the people he was sworn to protect.

Leaf Tosser had the lasso in his hands and spell past his lips in a flash, the ghostly ropes striking faster than viper. Reins tugging his horse back to stop the attempted cliff jump.

But somehow the Rider ducked, and either by luck or skill, managed to avoid being snared completely.

The blonde's clothes was not so lucky.

With a quick tug, the ghostly rope tore apart the apparently flimsy garments just as Nachos seemed to sprout wings.

That night, stories would be told around the fire about a daring young half blood warrior named Marco Diaz, rider of the winged steel steed Nachos and his beautiful, golden haired lady love. Of how she clung to her man as her hair trailed through the air as the warrior howled in joy at their flight, Nachos spewing flames through the sky as they sailed past the village.

Of how she was bare-ass naked.

A torrid romance born in the heart of the forbidding urban jungle, of their flight from valiant Leaf Tosser and the bitter feud between lawman and lawbreaker. About a warrior's vow to live free in the heartlands like the True People of olde and another's vow to capture the two lovers in the name of duty and honor that would be the beginnings of a saga worthy of tribal song.

Of course most of it was pure baseless bunk.

His damn wife just couldn't resist turning his embarrassing missed collar into a spectacle to entertain the Council Elders, and justification for his daughters to wear even less clothing!

But for now, Leaf Tosser solemnly removed his hat and gave salute to the Red Hood. Acknowledging the skill and daring that beat him that day, and he sang a song of mourning for the young fool too.

He may have failed to capture Marco Diaz this day, but it looks like another Anglo woman got her hooks into her man.

* * *

"Mmmmph! M mm Mmmmm Mmmmph Mmmmph. Mmm mmm mmm mmm mm?"

"Shut up and run!" Alfonzo said, pulling along his load and cursing the fact that it was much harder to sneak around in the daylight. His eyes stung with the unfamiliar brightness of the day.

The shanty towns of Echo Creek are one of those places where dragging a short gagged figure with long blonde hair along with you down the filthy street is not even going to warrant a call to Lone Star.

Partially because no one can really afford their protection rates even at a discount, and because having police around would likely be really bad for both you and your business. There aren't many legal ways to make a living in a shanty town, and the poor and desperate tend not to look kindly upon anyone bringing down the attention of Lone Star.

However, just because there was no Lone Star did not mean there was no law.

In the slums of Echo Creek, the street gangs ruled.

"GET THAT TROG!"

BANG said the hand cannon in the hands of a very angry dwarf.

"AAAIIIIEEEEE!" said Alfonzo as fist sized chunk of concrete got gouged out between his feet.

And one of their rules is that a suspicious acting trog wearing a red hood while dragging someone down 3rd street, territory of the Curbside Street Court Cabal (and their affiliates), is going to get jumped.

After all, it could be one of their own getting jacked chico. Ain't nobody like body snatchers.

"Look this is just a misunderstanding! Its not what it looks like!" Alfonzo huffed, having pulled down his jacket hood to show tusks and try to talk his way out of trouble. A trog could occasionally count on fellow trogs, who were over 70% of the slum dwellers to at least try and talk first before using up expensive ammo.

Decent plan, except that the gang were the Boulevard Bruisers, and they weren't trogs. They were dwarves. Dwarves who followed the proud tradition of hating trogs.

"Give it up trog! You can't run from us!" A statement that was quite untrue, but had to be said anyway.

The Blue Line Bruisers were actually a gang of dwarven knee breakers that had a great and honorable reputation as off the books security and knee capping enforcers of the peace go.

But as runners, not so much.

What they were know for was fulfilling contracts with stubborn minded determination. Rarely killing anyone that didn't start shit first, almost always leaving you alive and well if you apologized with enough credits, and best of all, always gave you at least one warning about your infraction before chopping you down to size and selling your organs to a body bank for the trouble.

Sadly, Alfonzo had a history of bad blood with them already, had no credits, and this was like his third warning.

They were so going to tear out a kidney if they caught him.

If.

Good thing, they were Dwarves with short legs, and Alfonzo was a lanky Ork, so he very well could easily run from the Blue Line Bruisers.

At least if Alfonzo was not dragging around load.

"Mmmmph! M mm Mmmmm Mmmmph Mmmmph. Mmm mmm mmm mmm mm?"

"For the last time, JUST RUN!" Alfonzo screamed, yelping into a duck as a near hit whizzed past his head.

Normally, a street rat like Alfonz would never get himself in a situation like this in the first place but he knew the streets best at night, his knowledge of which gang prowled which street, territory size, rivalries and alliances, likely war zones and patrol paths didn't apply to daylight hours were petty criminals like himself liked to be sleeping safely out of sight.

The need to be seen laying a false trail also meant passing by the few traffic cams and monitors that weren't shot or stolen already. So no chance of being able to stick to the safe routes back to his own turf.

"Mmmmph! M mm Mmmmm Mmmmph Mmmmph. Mmm mmm mmm mmm mm?"

"I swear on all the Pixie Dust in the world, if you don't haul your ass into high gear, I'm going to frag you myself! Now move!"

Darting into an alley to slip into Pixie Territory would be the quickest way, but quick wasn't an option when you were dragging someone else along. At this rate, he'd be shot full of lead before he got to friendly territory.

So Alfonzo added running into highway traffic in his long, long list of poor life decisions.

Two automated taxis, several cars, a bus and a garbage truck came close to splattering his guts all over the street but by some miracle, Alfonso managed to drag along his companion and himself into the Humanis held 5th street.

Now Humanis was an anti-metahuman group that hated anyone that didn't look pure human, so hypothetically a blonde girl getting dragged by a trog would be "saved" and the trog would get beaten to a pulp.

Or at least that was how Humanis was going to spin it. In reality, they'd jump at the excuse to beat a trog to the extent that a bound blonde could wander off without anyone even taking a break from kicking the crap out of him.

But not to death, hopefully, because 5th street was also nominally Ares Corp territory, parent company of Lone Star Law Enforcement Services that considered outright murder a major crime.

Humanis simply couldn't afford the fines.

Hopefully.

Any minute now.

Then Alfonzo heard laughing.

Lifting his head off the pavement, he saw the Bruisers just standing across the street and looking at him with amused expressions. Like they were waiting for something horrible to happen to him.

"Hallo mein geliebter ehemann."

Looking up, up and up, Alfonzo came face to face with a bloody, smiling, battle-axe hefting Ingrid Bloomgren. A trollish lass that looked very much like a giant, demented lumberjack.

The Cheerful Chopper.

Troll enforcer for the Neo Ringvereine. German gang known for being violently protective of their members and big fans on going medieval for even the smallest transgression against them. Alfonzo's kidneys just got a lot of company for potential organs he could lose today.

Also his 8th wife.

One that didn't know about the other 7.

"Hi there Ingrid! Gosh its been a while since I last saw you isn't it? Well, I've got things to do and Pixie Dust to peddle so I'll just…"

The vise grip at his ankle banished any thought of running as Ingrid hauled him high up over the street and level to her eyes. One handed.

"But I always have time to talk with you! You're looking well. Been working out haven't we? You always could rock that blood splattered look."

"Ja! Ich wurde befohlen, ein Nest von HUMANIS ungeziefer auszuräumen. Sie waren keine herausforderung."

Alfonzo looked at the plastic mesh bag she had clipped to her hip and saw a rather sizeable collection of severed heads. Humanis must have offended the wrong trog one day.

"Wer ist dein freund?" Said Ingrid as she nodded to his gagged companion.

It took a while before the question registered, Alfozo being a little distracted by the blood rushing to his head and annihilation of the 5th street Humanis chapter. On one hand, those guy were all pricks. But on the other hand, the heat was going to make selling Pixie Dust next to impossible for at least a week anywhere near the block.

"Oh her? She's just a friend. Look, its been fun, but we really need to get going and…"

Curious, Ingrid carefully used her battle axe to pull down the hood and exposed the visage of Star Butterfly, fainted on the pavement.

"Now I know that it looks bad, but I swear, I'm just doing this for a friend okay. No need to get mad or jump to conclusions."

Ingrid frowned, tilted her head and then smiled as she turned to Alfonzo, causing Alfonzo to piss himself.

"Alfonzo, du hast einen guten geschmack."

* * *

Downtown San Diego could generously be described as a melting pot.

The cold and sterile, forced orderliness of typical Corp territory was dotted with the more colorful elements you would typically find only in the seediest slums but disinfected and turned into a touristy version of itself.

There were knock off bootleggers hawking their wares on the street besides legitimate name brand stores. Regulations violating eateries offering exotic street food from a dozen countries within spitting distance of multi star French restaurants. Special "massage" parlors posted thinly veiled euphemisms for illicit services besides exclusive saloons with waiting lists months long.

It was a place where bare chested and heavily body tattooed Yakuza with mono-filament katanas walked the street with heavily armored Knight Errant security with enchanted machine-guns and each would pointedly pretend not to see the other.

Because downtown was a special place. A neutral place. A sacred place that came about when it became abundantly clear that not one mob or gang could ever hope to take and hold the territory combined with stark bottom line truth that the cost of strict law enforcement was unacceptably high without a justifying incident to warrant additional expenditure.

So in an unexpected twist, the one section of of the city with that had the most blatantly open criminal population also was the safest from crime because every criminal there had a vested interest in keeping the peace.

Tolerance was very lucrative after all.

Downtown was truly that twilight place between the perfumed air of high society and the raw, visceral stench of the street. Where what could be considered shameful slumming to a corp brat may be a dream getaway for a wage slave.

Which was why an utter junker with more than legally allowed tint rattling its way from the slums into one of the more low class automated motels didn't draw much attention.

The fact that 5 minutes later the garage door exploded into fiery scrap drew plenty of attention though.


End file.
